Stitch, Heal, Run: A Mother’s Odyssey from Syria to Safety

Several years ago, I came across a brave mother who had fled with her children during the Syrian Revolution. This is her story.

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credit: Unsplash

Desperate men waited for the bloody rays of the sun to disappear silently behind the mountains before they snuck through the fields to see her. She was the only woman in the village of her sort. She was very good at what she did because she was quick, and she worked well.

Her house was small. Humble. Difficult to find. It was perfect. She was a stout woman in her late thirties but she looked much older, and she tied a white scarf back and under her greying ponytail to keep it out of the way while she worked. She’d seen enough to make a grown man cry. At first she cried too, but over time she became numb to everything. Emotions weren’t good for anything now anyway.

They often started showing up shortly after the call for evening prayers, when the sky was finally a navy blue with a few lonely stars peppering its canvas. Men would then start knock… knock knock…knocking on the door… a kind of code. Today’s visitor stumbled into her as soon as she opened the rickety door and it took her a moment to register the bizarre sight. In fact, what hit her first was a desperate moaning and the strong smell of fresh blood. She grabbed the man’s shoulders before he fell, and her husband helped her drag him into the living room which they’d transformed into an infirmary at night.

“Away from the fire,” she whispered. “The wound is big and the heat will only make it bleed more.”

She worked quickly. Her husband removed the wounded man’s blood-drenched pants and she poured some of the household antiseptic, the one she kept hidden and locked away in a cupboard next to the coffee and biscuits, onto the wound. The man hollered with pain and she stuffed a cloth into his mouth. Soldiers were creeping around the area a lot lately. Any sound would give them away.

People like her had a large ransom on their heads. The government did not want to give civilians access to medical care, especially those supporting the revolution. Pharmacies and doctors were targeted and killed every day. Anything which may be used to cleanse a wound was taken off the shelves. People had resorted to using household cleaners in lieu of iodine and alcohol.

Over 90 percent of the population in Syria lives below the poverty line (as of March 2024)- UNHCR

credit: Unsplash

She proceeded to stitch the wound with fluid movements making long shadows on the walls around them. The old lantern’s light was barely enough for her to see what she was doing. The wound started below his navel and spread all the way around to his lower back. It would take time. Her children slept soundly next to the fire. They were accustomed to hungry revolutionaries stumbling in for food, wounded men stumbling in to have bullets removed and to be stitched up, men dying and their bodies carried out stealthily to be returned to their families. She wanted to believe it was because they were strong, but she knew it was because they were just as numb as she was.

In… out… in… out. The young man whimpered every time the needle punctured his skin. Later, she would use the same needle to darn her husband’s old socks and trousers.

Her trips into the market were carefully planned. She couldn’t leave her home without the long khimar covering her from head to toe. Beneath the khimar she was able to hide household antiseptics, rags she’d bought to wrap wounds with and to apply to fevered heads, and fishing lines to stitch up wounds. At each army checkpoint, her heart beat painfully in her throat. Her arms went numb all the way down to her thick fingertips every time she saw her picture plastered across shop windows and doors.

Traitor Wanted.

One cold February night, an army vehicle drove around their little village, up and down its shivering streets, over the carefully planted vegetable gardens, calling out for evacuation.

More than 5 million Syrian refugees are living in neighboring countries and more than 7.2 million are internally displaced inside Syria. Women and children comprise more than two thirds of those displaced.

– UNHCR

credit: Unsplash

“You have 24 hours to leave the village,” the cold hollow voice called out. “You have been warned. No one and nothing will be spared.”

She slept soundly and so did the children. It was a call they heard almost every night. Tonight, however, she was jolted awake to the sound of missiles nearby. The old mud house shivered and shook.

Her husband and oldest son packed a small bag with an extra set of clothing and some bread, dehydrated meat, and water. They disappeared into the darkness. She knew army officials would be eager to recruit them to kill revolutionaries.

Holding her youngest close to her swollen belly, she ran out of the home with her five children stumbling behind her. She didn’t have time to look back, bare feet pattering, frozen, across the little blanket of snow covering the streets. She could only hope and pray that her little ones were right behind her.

They ran and ran until they spotted a beat-up bus ahead, swaying carefully in the fog and snow. Somehow she managed to catch up to it and wave desperately. The door squeaked open, and she threw the baby into a stranger’s arms and proceeded to lift the remaining children into safety. She forgot to count. Three? Four? Did she have all five of them?

Collapsing against a pile of soft flesh, she closed her eyes, the putrid smell of blood heavy in the air around her. The bus put-putted into the horizon, disappearing into the night. Darkness swallowed them. She shoved her swollen breast into her baby’s mouth silencing his cries and closed her eyes wondering where they would end up.

The old bus disappeared silently into the mist. She continued to mutter prayers onto her oldest son’s rosary beads, knowing deep down that they were all that would be left of him.

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Thousands of refugees from all over the world have entered Canada in the past few years alone, with numbers rising daily amidst global unrest. Many of them are closer to you than you think. If you are a student or if you know a student who has been affected by war, displacement, natural disaster, or similar circumstances, NAIT offers emergency supports to help make life more bearable.

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